


Nijimura's New Neighbor

by masi



Series: Short Stories for BPS [3]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 17:51:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masi/pseuds/masi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nijimura has a new neighbor who likes to play basketball and complain about being second best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nijimura's New Neighbor

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: _Kuroko no Basuke_ belongs to Tadatoshi Fujimaki.   
>  This story was written for BPS Challenge No. 25: Basketball.

Shūzō first met Himuro Tatsuya at Akashi’s high school graduation party, but he didn’t pay much attention to the guy at the time. He was too busy discussing with his former classmates about how weird their kōhai had gotten, wondering what they had done with Haizaki (who hasn’t been seen or heard of for a worryingly long period of time), and being grateful that he had graduated from Teikō when he did. The world outside of secondary school - the world where stupid students have to spend hours trying to make sense of “basic” homework; where you have to kiss your professors’ asses so that you can stay on top of your classes, so that you have a chance at a good job later; where you work at a combini on the weekends so that you can pay rent because your mother has enough on her plate taking care of the younger siblings - isn’t too kind on weirdos who refuse to let go of their bad habits. Akashi and Kise will be fine (old money, charm), but the others will need to stick with basketball or tap into some other talent, pronto.

There were several new faces at the party, friends of the Kiseki no Sedai (or so they claimed), but they were all relatively normal, so Shūzō doesn’t bother thinking about them until he runs into Himuro again, almost a year later. At the street court behind his apartment building, of all places.

“Hey,” Shūzō says, “you’re that guy from Akashi’s party.” 

Himuro’s arms are outstretched towards the net, ball poised within beautiful, long fingers. At this angle, the ball will sink into the net in one fluid motion, perfect trajectory, three points. Shūzō remembers Midorima and feels almost nostalgic. The evening sunlight doesn’t help.

“Nijimura-kun, isn’t it?” Himuro replies, smiling politely. He tucks the ball under his arm.

“Are we neighbors or something?” The last thing Shūzō needs is an infestation of Kiseki no Sedai in the neighborhood, with their drama and loudness and okay, maybe it might be a little fun. He wouldn’t mind shooting hoops with them from time to time. Maybe Akashi can be occasionally persuaded to do his homework, just a few assignments here and there.

“I live in that apartment,” Himuro points to the building next to Nijimura’s. “The student dorms were too small, so I moved out here a few days ago.” He is still smiling. “I like this court. Would you like to have a game?”

“Who told you I play?” The smile is making Shūzō uncomfortable. Along with the long, emo bangs covering Himuro’s left eye. It’s best to leave the teenage angst and hairstyle behind once you start university.

“Atsushi.” Himuro tosses him the ball. “He said you were his second favorite captain, after Akashi-kun.”

“Murasakibara? That’s a nice compliment from my third least favorite kōhai. Or, maybe it’s fourth. I can’t keep track.” Shūzō dribbles the ball a few times to get the feel for it and then heads for the net.

After he has dunked it, jumped down from the high, the wind in his hair, a smile starting somewhere inside of him, Himuro remarks, “Power forward, huh? Nijimura-kun, would you like to go for coffee?”

“No.” Shūzō passes the ball. “One-on-one. Show me what you got. Let’s go.”

The game ends after night falls, long after he has lost track of the score.

 

***

There are several guys in Shūzō’s building who like to play basketball, but they aren’t serious about it: they only play after getting fired up because of a game on TV, or when there are a lot of teenagers messing around on the court wanting to prove a point. They used to invite Shūzō to their games sometimes, before they saw him shooting hoops with Himuro. 

“Would you like to join them?” Himuro asks one evening, having caught Shūzō standing in the kitchen balcony, scowling at the court below.

Shūzō reenters Himuro’s apartment, slides the door shut. “No. You’re supposed to be helping me with calc, remember?”

Himuro isn’t that good at math, or any subject besides English, but he’s not terrible either. They go to different universities, but they’re taking similar classes, so Shūzō sometimes visits in the evenings to do homework together. He likes the company. He also likes Himuro’s experimental cooking. The kitchen counters are always a mess afterwards, so much so that Shūzō is daily expecting a cockroach to come crawling out, but the “Asian fusion” food is good. For dessert, they have cake and other tasty things Murasakibara sends over for his darling Muro-chin. 

The only problem Shūzō has with Himuro is that the guy is annoyingly passive-aggressive at times and likes to extract information from people while being cagey about his own life. For example, instead of helping Shūzō study for his calc exam tomorrow, Himuro is currently asking him how Shūzō feels about not pursuing basketball after high school. Is it difficult to watch NBL games? Does he go to college games? “Such an awkward position to be in,” Himuro remarks, looking out at the court, “neither an amateur nor a pro.”

“You seem to know a lot about it,” Shūzō replies, checking his answer for problem 5-G with the back of the textbook to find that it is wrong.

“Maybe. You know what we should call ourselves when we take on those neighborhood guys? The Second-Best Basketball Club. The Second-Raters. What do you think?”

“I think you’re full of shit.”

“Well, I may have an excuse.” There is an edge to Himuro’s voice. “After all, I never played for Teikō. Compared to you, I can be called an amateur. You won our last one-on-one by five points. Tell me, Shūzō, why is it that you were never one of the Uncrowned Kings?”

“Because I was barely playing in important games in my third year.” Shūzō glares at him. “And there are valid reasons for that, like the fact that Akashi and the others were surpassing me, and I couldn’t do much about it because of reasons like my dad.” The years have made it a little easier to talk about his father, but this is not the way he wanted to tell Himuro. “He was in the hospital at that time, so I didn’t want to spend all day playing basketball, not that it’s any of your business. I didn’t have time to play in high school either. And is that supposed to mean something, being one of the Uncrowned Kings? It’s just a title. How many of them are still playing basketball right now? Lots of kids play ball in school and get tons of trophies and awards. You can’t make a career of it unless you have a lot of things going well for you.” 

“Very true.” Himuro, looking slightly repentant, pours him a cup of chai tea. He has a habit of making amends through dispensing food and drinks. Probably from years of handling Murasakibara. “You do have a good reason for not continuing with basketball. I am sorry about your father. How is -”

“He’s not.”

“I’m so sorry.” He reaches out a hand, like he is going to touch Shūzō’s shoulder or something, but then drops it. “Would you like to have sandwich tempura for dinner?”

“Fine.”

Shūzō goes through a few more problems before looking at Himuro. The guy is mixing the tempura batter, a little frown on his face. It’s a better look for him than the perpetual poker face. “Oi,” Shūzō says, “help me with this crap. And then I’ll help you.”

***

They’re at the café a block from their neighborhood one morning, bleary-eyed over their coffee, when Himuro says, “Sometimes it’s not so bad, being average.” He has his phone out on the table. Some sports app is open, displaying scores from an NBA game. Apparently, he is having another moody day.

“Who’re you calling average,” Shūzō replies. “I aced that calc exam.”

“It must be nice,” Himuro says, with that fake smile he adopts right before he is about to say something insulting, “to be so content with simple pleasures.”

“Are you saying I’m simple?”

“Maybe?”

When Shūzō aims a fist at Himuro’s head, the guy dodges neatly, easily. His bangs flutter back into place. “Nice,” Shūzō says, impressed. “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen anyone with such good reflexes.”

“Do you get in fights often?” Himuro asks. “You should invite me along sometime.”

Shūzō thinks about the fights he used to get into when he was a teenager. They were never that serious. By the time he was done shouting and waving his fists around, he didn’t have much anger left in him to carry on with the punching and kicking part. Yeah, he beat up Haizaki sometimes, but that was all in the name of discipline, and he didn’t hit that hard. Haizaki just bruises easily. 

“I bet I don’t fight for the reasons you do,” Shūzō replies. “Who’re you so mad at anyway?”

He has a pretty good idea what the answer is, but it surprises him when Himuro admits, “Myself.”

Not sure how to respond properly, Shūzō offers, “That’s dramatic.”

“Isn’t it?” Himuro takes a sip of his coffee. “It’s the worst person to be angry with. Very uncomfortable. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Is this about not going pro?”

After a long, considering look, Himuro replies, “When I was a kid, I made basketball into the thing that was going to define me. I was good at it. I was going to become great. People would know me for my basketball. It has let me down.” 

Shūzō knows that saying the wrong thing right now will cause Himuro to put up his walls of ice, and that will be the end of this friendship. He thinks back to what he did when his little sister cried about not winning first place in her school competitions. Usually the remedy was ice cream, and him saying that “competitions are stupid, there’s more to life than that, kid,” followed by letting her play on his old PlayStation for hours. That’s not going to cut it here. 

He says, “Hey, man, that sucks. But you’ve turned out okay, even without basketball, so who cares?”

Himuro stares at him, eyebrow raised. “I mean,” Shūzō clarifies, feeling a little hot under the collar, “I don’t think you’re weak. That’s what you were going for when you were a kid, right, for people to think you were strong? Maybe you can’t make your mark with basketball, but that’s kind of limiting anyway, defining yourself through one thing. Anyway, who cares about being famous. It’s better to be liked.”

“You can be liked and famous,” Himuro replies.

“Yeah, okay smart-ass, but you know what happens when people try too hard to be famous? They’re not liked anymore, and then they don’t like themselves much either.” Shūzō finishes his coffee and tosses the cup in the direction of the recycle bin. It goes in, three points. The salaryman passing by the table with briefcase in hand, tie crooked, stops to glare at him. 

“Sorry,” Himuro says for him, and when the guy has left, says, “you may be right about that last bit, Life Coach-san. I almost lost an important friend because of my fixation on being better than everyone. You ready to go?” 

When they are at the crosswalk where they have to split up, Himuro says, “Have a nice day.”

Shūzō thinks of the forced apathy in Himuro’s tone when he had spoken about his important friend, the self-deprecating humor. He says, “Ok, but let me make one thing clear. I don’t think you’re fixated on being better than everyone. You just get surpassed a lot, and left behind, and it stings, right? Believe me, the only way to deal is to let go. Or you’ll be burning bridges left and right.”

“You’re in the wrong field of study, Shūzō.” Himuro puts a hand on his shoulder. “You should be studying psychology instead of accounting. Want to shoot hoops this evening?”

Shūzō scowls, shakes off the hand, and then replies, “No. Let’s go to an onsen instead. My arms are all stiff from unloading crates yesterday at my crap job.”

After a moment, Himuro agrees, gives him a surprised, pleased smile.


End file.
